


Trapped

by Megalovanilize



Series: Wingfics with the Pirate Edgelord [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: (Almost), Burns, Choking, Cults, Elves, Fluff and Angst, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, I’d like to formally apologize to Daniel for this, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Mordai is a piece of shit, Nightmares, Tieflings, Wingfic, Wings, sylas may or may not have ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megalovanilize/pseuds/Megalovanilize
Summary: Ever since the rest of his race had died at the hands of the infamous Church of the Silver Flame, Sylas Delacour had been plagued with nightmares. He tranced whenever he could, avoiding true sleep, avoiding dreams, avoiding the memories of the fire, but a night spent in the arms of Captain Morgan Germaine breaks his resolve. He falls asleep despite his misgivings, and his nightmares are haunted by someone he thought he’d taken care of.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Sylas Delacour/Morgan Appendix Germaine
Series: Wingfics with the Pirate Edgelord [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580800
Kudos: 6





	Trapped

Sylas snarled at the faceless black robes holding him down, just as dark as he remembered them. Black like the smoke as they burned his forest down, black like his feathers turned from pure white, black like the night that had become his home. Even as he thrashed against them he knew it was useless; there were too many of them, he wasn’t strong enough, it was too late to run. But he wasn’t going to make this easy. They’d ignored every demand to _get their filthy_ **_fucking_ ** _hands off his wings_ , two of the bastards shoving them into the ground, dangerously close to breaking the fragile bones. A third ground his face into the dirt with a knee on the back of his neck, shackling his arms above his head at the wrist. 

They’d finally caught him.

He couldn’t help but wonder if they weren’t aware he spoke Infernal or if they just didn’t care, gritting his teeth as they debated what to do with him: burning him alive, dismemberment, enslaving him, making him an example… if nothing else, they were a creative bunch. The elf had just opened his mouth to sarcastically make a suggestion of his own when a single voice cut through the crowd, rumbling baritone silencing any others. 

“No,” Sylas froze in place at the sound, mouth snapping shut as his eyes darted around the crowd, unable to see higher than their knees, seeking someone he thought he’d never see again. “I’ve got a better idea.” He knew that voice. He’d _killed_ that voice. He’d made sure that voice could never hurt anyone ever again. And yet his eyes told him a different story, pristine white boots stopping just before they reached him, a forked red tail flicking back and forth. “Cut off his wings. Make him watch, make him _really_ feel it. Take an axe through them bit by bit, it’s been far too long since I’ve heard bones being crushed. Draw it out, leave him with nothing, enjoy his screams as we take away his identify, and _then_ burn him. Don’t any of you remember the old ways?” The tiefling knelt down before him, brushing hair out of his face in a mockery of kindness, forcing him to look up at the man he thought he burned. “Didn’t I say we’d be back, little bird? We just needed a spark to restart our fire.” Mordai laughed as Sylas struggled to jerk back, to get away, to _escape_ , because what the _fuck_ was he looking at?

Half of his face was exactly what Sylas remembered, one black eye still set deep into blotchy red skin. His sinister smile emphasized the wrinkles stretching down his face, receding white hair barely reaching the bull horns jutting out from his temples. However, the other half showed the undeniable evidence of Sylas’ work, burnt near down to the bone. Blackened flesh clung tightly to the white skull beneath it, the few patches of red between the blisters much ashier than the healthy skin on his other side, as if any remaining blood had evaporated in the heat. His eye was entirely gone, sagging skin not quite stretching to cover the socket, revealing a dark, bloody gap in its place. The myriad of colors stretching across his expression was nothing compared to the putrid smell, sweet and coppery and sulfurous all at once. 

Every ounce of him was screaming to get away, that this was _wrong_ , that he should be dead, but nothing was responding. Sylas could only stare as they yanked him up, keeping a bruising hold on his wings as they forced his arms above his head. The rattling of a chain above him betrayed some sort of pulley system, but Sylas didn’t let himself wonder how long they’d been planning for this, especially when an additional shackle quickly closed around his ankle. Nowhere to run. He was busy studying the shackles above him, trying to find a way out, when a clawed hand closed around his jaw, jerking it down to meet a half charred face. Feeling the ever-present charcoal scratch against his face, Sylas tried once more to wrestle himself out of his iron grip, but it was no use. A bird in a cage.

“So are you gonna cooperate with us, songbird? Or am I gonna get to have some fun?” Mordai’s expression sickened him, far too much excitement gleaming in his remaining eye for Sylas to have more than one answer. The elf spat directly into his face. He would _never_ submit to people like this, he’d die before he let it happen. And judging by his captor’s smile as he wiped the saliva off his burned features, that would happen sooner than he might like. 

“ _Excellent_ choice,” the tiefling grinned, nodding at the two holding his right wing. “And you know what, just for that, I think we’ll have a little change of plans. Of course I still want to carve into you, but I also don’t particularly want to give you the ability to _adjust_ to the loss of a limb before I’m done removing it. Quite the dilemma, as I’m sure you can see.” As he spoke, he began to circle Sylas’ body, running his hand over midnight black feathers as the beings in black robes grabbed knives from their cloaks. Sylas’ stomach dropped as Mordai stopped directly in his line of sight, blocking his associates from view, but he refused to close his eyes. Looking away would mean giving up, and he couldn’t give them a victory. However, he couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief as he felt them cut into his feathers instead of his flesh. Mordai stepped back just in time to show them maiming the white primaries, ruining his flight, grounding him. 

“Your feathers are quite beautiful, you know.” Sylas’ head snapped back over to him, eyes narrowing as Mordai stared at his wings. “They’ll look even better blackened to a crisp, but I can appreciate their artistic value,” the tiefling continued, picking one up of the cut sections in his coal-covered hand, turning the white barbs black. Of course. Sylas could only glare as Mordai resumed his predatory circle. “Anyways, I believe I’ve found a solution.” Still speaking, he disappeared from Sylas’ sight, even more unnerving now that he couldn’t predict what he’d do next. “Instead of letting you gradually adjust, I’ll cut one off at the base right now, and continue my original plan on whatever’s left. How does that sound?” 

He wouldn’t react. He wouldn’t give these monsters the _satisfaction_ of seeing him scared. He still had his honor, he still had his pride. If there was one thing those bastards in Orphalion taught him, it was how to hide his emotions. He wouldn’t flinch, he wouldn’t yield. Even when Mordai appeared behind him, hands slamming down onto his shoulders, charcoal further ruining his already stained coat, he held his position. A shock of pride made its way through him as he stayed true to his word, soon overcome by the cold tendrils of fear that accompanied the flash of a blade. It was only at that moment that Sylas realized they’d cut his feathers to get a better grip, to hold him down, and it was only at that moment that he truly accepted his fate.

So this was it. Huh. He wondered if this was how his parents felt as well.

“Anything to say, angel?” Mordai’s voice taunted him, brushing against his ear, a reminder of what was to come. Sylas said nothing. “That’s what I thought. Now. _Let’s begin_.” The cold metal of the sword bit into his skin-

————-

Sylas’ eyes snapped open, meeting only darkness as his head darted around his surroundings. Were they here? His wrists were free. No chains. But where was the tiefling? Where were the knives where was the _sword-_

His wings. He could only feel one of his wings, what happened _what happened_ ** _what_** **_happened-_**

There was someone lying next to him, shifting slightly, right where he should’ve had sensation in his right wing. He could feel them pillowed against his arm, hot on his skin. Who was it? What were they doing here? Why couldn’t he feel his wing what **_happened-_ **

When they tried to move closer, grumbling slightly, Sylas couldn’t do anything but react. He shoved himself up, pushing them off before whirling around and pinning them down by the throat. Breathing heavy as he shoved his weight onto their neck, he simply snarled in place of any coherent threat. They were _not_ to touch him, they couldn’t have his wings, they couldn’t _take them_. Almost-electric blue eyes snapped open, widening in surprise as the air left their owner’s lungs. He- it was a man- clawed at Sylas’ arms for a moment in panic before locking eyes with him, managing to grab his wrists and push them up enough to gasp in half a breath.

“Sylas-” he choked out, still barely managing to speak with the hands on his throat. How did he know his name? Had he been followed? “It’s me. It’s ok. Please-” hold on. He knew that voice. He knew those hands, he knew those eyes. 

“I- Germaine?” Sylas asked, easing back and allowing him to take in air. His captain let out hacking coughs as he tried to catch his breath, sitting up to meet the elf’s eyes as he rubbed at his neck. If that was Germaine, then how…? Sylas looked over his shoulder, realizing immediately that yes, both his wings were still attached. The right one was on pins and needles from Germaine sleeping on top of it, but it was no longer numb. There was no danger, there was no Silver Flame, there was no one trying to take away his wings. He was okay. But that meant… Sylas’ head snapped back around, eyes widening as he looked back at his captain. _Shit_. 

“Germaine? Shit, are you alright?” Sylas reached back towards him on instinct, drawing his hand back immediately after he realized what he’d done. That was his captain, that was his _friend_ , what had he _done_? 

“I’m okay, Sylas. It’s okay.” Germaine’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, slightly hoarse but _alive_. “Can I touch you?” Sylas would’ve thought he should be the one asking that after what had just happened, but he simply nodded, thankful for his captain holding him close as he came down from the dream. Breathing in his scent, he allowed himself to close his eyes, finally relaxing in his hold. He was here, he was fine, he was safe.

“I’m sorry,” Sylas muttered, wrapping his wings around the both of them as they sat on the bed. Germaine simply adjusted himself to settle closer to him, petting his hair, grounding him in the moment.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Morgan replied, murmuring like a stream into Sylas’ ear. For a split second the feeling reminded him of Mordai, sending chills down his spine, but the tone was so different it only lasted a moment. This was _Germaine_ , he would never hurt him. He was here to help, it was all okay. “Do you want to tell me about what happened?” Sylas hesitated for a moment before shaking his head no. It was too fresh in his mind; maybe tomorrow, after he’d had time to process. “That’s alright, you don’t have to. Would you like me to stay with you?” Sylas immediately nodded, clutching Germaine closer to himself. In the dream he’d been alone, so, _so_ certain that no one was coming to help him. He usually said he preferred solitude, but being alone with his thoughts currently sounded like the worst idea he’d ever heard. “Alright, I won’t go. Do you need anything from me?” Sylas again hesitated before responding, basking in the sensation of Germaine playing with his hair as he thought about his answer. 

“I-” he cut himself short before answering, again remembering just what he’d done. What right did he have to ask for anything right now? “... nevermind, it’s nothing.” Germaine pulled back slightly to look him in the eyes, brushing back Sylas’ bangs to cup his face in one hand. The elf flinched back before he could stop himself, the motion too familiar, too sinister, but immediately regretted it when Germaine began to pull away. His own hand shot up, stopping Morgan’s in its tracks, keeping it pressed to his skin. Blushing lightly in embarrassment at his own actions, he looked down, breaking eye contact. However, he soon saw Germaine’s free hand slowly approach and lift his chin, reluctantly glancing back up to meet his gaze. 

“Sylas, it’s alright, truly. Whatever it is, I can do it.” His eyes looked so genuine, so loving that Sylas almost broke. He’d always known just what to say… oh, what the hell.

“This will sound a little stupid, but…” Sylas reached up to scratch the back of his head, gaining a module of confidence as Germaine nodded encouragingly at him. “Could you touch my wings? I just… need to know you’re here. And that they’re… safe.” He hated the way he paused between words, searching for what to say, trying to convey his thoughts without getting sucked back in. But of course Germaine was endlessly understanding, simply nodding again, smiling in a way that gave him more security than he knew what to do with. 

“Of course, Sylas. Can you lay down for me?” Doing as he asked, the elf stretched out his wings, pillowing his head on his arms. It was Germaine, it would be fine. “I’m going to touch you now, is that still alright?” Sylas let out a small sound of affirmation, taking a deep breath as he flexed his wings once more. They were free, he was safe, it was okay. Just as he said, Germaine started out with a light touch along the arch of his wings, gently making his way across the feathers. He softly massaged the tense muscles, applying just enough pressure to make Sylas pliant beneath his deft fingers. Focusing on his companion’s reactions, Germaine waited until his eyes had slipped shut and his breathing had evened out before trailing his fingers across the elf’s back and starting on his other wing. It felt amazing, and with the nightmare gradually dissolving into the back of his mind, Sylas faded back into the sweet grip of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! I’ve found myself incapable of writing anything except for my dnd campaign recently, and I’m not expecting a lot of reads, but if you’ve made it this far I very much appreciate you. Comments would mean the world to me, I’m always looking for feedback or that sweet, sweet validation. Love y’all!


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